


Lying is Part of Growing Up

by graywrites



Category: Victorious (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, its 4 am man idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 08:06:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15881991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graywrites/pseuds/graywrites
Summary: Jade broke up with Beck and the reason is something buried deep beneath layers of not-parties and dates in the janitor closet and cheap beer, because Jade has never been so good with talking and feeling, or anything but that ever-spinning angle, so she keeps it strictly physical and doesn't think too hard about Tori, and what Tori makes her feel.





	Lying is Part of Growing Up

**Author's Note:**

> y'all its the last night of summer but also 4:30 am my sleep schedule is fucking bc of jori anyways this is jades pov to my fic 'growing up is mostly lying' im SORRY for the matchy names but it be like that!! im still jori trash sorry if the characterization isnt perfect also. i wrote like a third of this directly after the original fic and the rest in a few hours so. you know. it be that way hope u enjoy lmao

 

 

Going to André’s little get-together bullshit isn’t anybody’s best idea, but you figure by no means is it anybody’s worst, either, and if you’re being halfway honest, you’re still stewing over your little mutually assured destruction with Beck, so yeah, okay, you’ll play party-girl whatever, or not-a-party-girl, whatever next thing that André calls it to protect his conscience, or maybe just to make up for the fact that it’s going to be entirely small and lame, like maybe he’s just trying to cover his ass because he wants to go, but not alone, even if he knows you’re all going to fucking hate it.

 

So, fine, not even halfway through agreeing to go you’ve pretty much resigned yourself to the fact that all its gonna do is get your blood pumping long enough to clear your mind in the worst way, and you sorta know that maybe it’s some kind of fucking pity grab on André’s part because _oh, sad Jade, reeling from Beck dumping her!_ Like you didn’t break up with him, like you actually know why or something, like you didn’t spend the whole night with empty words at the absolute top of your lungs throwing out some bullshit cheating line like that’s something he would ever do, like that made sense or was something he deserved, like you weren’t entirely fucking awful anyways, like the bullshit pity grab is something you _deserve_ because apparently you’ve got _friends_ or something.

 

How’s that saying go? With friends like these…

 

But you don’t say any of that, that’s the half surprising part, not having a total fucking screaming meltdown in the middle of the Asphalt Café, instead you just ask if there will be alcohol there, and when André gives you an entirely tentative yes, you figure that’s enough to give the go ahead, so you find yourself agreeing before you even think about it long enough to get angry.

 

And then how can you be surprised when Beck overhears and says that sure, he’ll come, too, and _God,_ isn’t that just so fucking typical? Doesn’t that just make it a thousand times harder? For all of the maturity Beck feigns, when he’s particularly hurt, he can master pettiness like no other. It might be impressive if it weren’t so fucking annoying. You give him your very best snarl, but don’t back down, and agree for Friday night, anyways.

 

Robbie gets invited by default, because he’s the only one who has access to a car on Friday. He says it has seven seats, all giddy, talking about his ‘first ever party experience!’ But all you’re thinking is that there’s only six of you, so that means you can manage to be pretty far from Beck no matter what happens, before you realized that, you know, Robbie is a fucking freak, who shoves his fucking puppet in the front seat.

 

When they get to your house, Cat and André are already there, and of course so is the fucking puppet, so it’s no big surprise that you end up in the very back row of three seats that are so short your knees hit Andrés head rest. Two seats left, both next to you, and the only two stops left are Beck and Vega. Do the fucking math.

 

Beck climbs in, though he still has the goddamn courtesy not to sit _right_ next to you in these toddler-sized seats where he’d be pressed up against you. Of course, that means the _Tori_ is gonna be the one all pressed up against you, and after some heavy consideration, you dictate that that’s _so_ much worse, don’t wanna explain to yourself _why_ , cause it’s just because you hate her, just because you’re _not_ friends, like _that’s_ worse than being pressed up against your ex, for sure- like you haven’t _gone_ to her after breaking up with him before, in the same you wouldn’t let yourself this time, because something inside you _knew_ even then that that’d make it so much worse.

 

Even so, there’s no putting off the inevitable, or at least that’s what your mom says whenever you linger over your coffee too long before leaving for school. You loathe to admit that she’s right, though, because Tori Vega is sliding open the door, and when her eyes land on the very only available seat, her face drains off all color, and you can actually _see_ her heart sink. You watch her eyes flit to the front see, where Robbie’s fucking _puppet_ rests, and you’d laugh if it weren’t almost just as bad for you. (More, maybe.)

 

After some overly visible inner conflict, she takes her seat in between you and Beck, and you suppose that that’s when the ride really starts.

 

The trip there is long and you spend the entire time with your eyes drawn to the window and Tori pressed up dangerously close to you with _its fine its fine its fine_ playing over and over in your head as you spin your ring around your finger and count the seconds ‘till you end up in front of a two story brick townhouse that André leads you in to like he’s real proud, and you’re chewing on your bottom lip the entire time.

 

Some skeevy frat boy skater kid hands you a red cup at the door and André tells you he doesn’t know him. Someone you can’t see from your place behind your single file party line leads you through the house, and it’s mostly smoke and peeling wallpaper, every room either far too bright or far too dim, usually slightly flickering. The floors look scarred and the couches amongst the first floor are from varying decades, none of them yours. Kids lean against things with cups in their hands with serious expressions like something is real damn important in this too-bright brick house that’s not theirs, like there’s cause for something more philosophical than a little drunken slurring over a cup of something akin to gasoline. (There isn’t).

 

Speakers in the kitchen put in their best efforts to groan out a fuzzy song that no one’s ever heard of, and no one will ever hear again. Alcohol is being supplied before you can finish the cup that’s in your hand, but still, you manage to knock back more than anyone, as if this cheap, watered-down beer can get you anything more than halfway buzzed.

 

The gasoline is being saved for the kids who are taking everything way too seriously, you guess. You hope it doesn’t mean anything that at the first opportunity, you pick up a still-full cup of something strong and claim it for your own, hope that the posture and expressions won’t spread that easy, just with anything that stings a little.

 

Kids who think they’re cool enough to be in college but are probably only in your grade puff out mango-flavored nicotine with eyes that don’t focus on anything, but all you smell is static, and it’s all so fucking _haunted_ or something that if you were any slower with the stinging red cup ritual you’ve got going on, you’d probably wish you hadn’t come, maybe leave on the spot and walk the hour and a half home.

 

The group doubles back, collecting some of André’s friends on the way, and you dominate the low-lit den, lounging around the old furniture and hard floor with steady alcohol consumption, barely able to make out the music anymore. Not that it was especially intelligible in the first place. (It’s that shitty indie lo-fi you _bet_ Tori would listen to. When you glance over at her, though, you catch her eye, and you both look away as fast as you can, like it never happened.)

 

It's mostly quiet in between André chatting with his friends, and it occurs to you that this party is totally God-awful and entirely boring. At least there’s alcohol? Right? You furrow your eyebrows and knock back another cup, smiling all the while like it still has any taste.

 

It takes twenty-three cars passing after that before someone- one of André’s friends? – stands up claiming some great suggestion. Everyone pays some halfhearted attention as this kid describes the premise of some bullshit game for twelve years old kids that involves violence or romance, but not both, and as fucking terrible as it sounds you find yourself agreeing because fuck, this can only be interesting, right? And you want to see what happens, right?

 

(‘ _Spin the Bottle but you can also slap someone instead!’_ it’s so fucking simplistic that you have to roll your eyes, but it’d be lying to say all of the pent of nervous energy centered in your shoulder blades doesn’t leave your hands twitching for some kind of _damage_ , like you aren’t almost _begging_ for something worth being mad about to happen.)

 

Like it won’t be a disaster (isn’t that what you want?), everything taken into consideration. _Whatever_. Gasoline (or maybe nail polish remover?) and you tell yourself you’re taking everything too fucking seriously, glance over at Tori, who looks lost; Beck, who looks smug, and you could kill him if it weren’t your fault, if your chest wouldn’t threaten to ache had you not let yourself really feel the burn in your throat, instead.

 

(For the record? It smells like weed, mango, beer, metal; the windows are closed and the heater is on and it makes you claustrophobic, eyes darting around the room, smile perched on your face like everything’s an inside joke. You should walk home.)

 

You start spinning the first thing anyone finds in their hands, and it goes and goes and it’s entirely boring until it’s Beck and some girl and you’re biting your tongue ‘till it bleeds and everyone, _everyone_ is looking at you except for Beck and his girl, that girl, and you’re about three seconds away from throwing _something_ , anything at all, aside from it being his right and this whole thing being your fault and on purpose and _you_ dumped _him_ , and he knows that, so what’s the point, you know what happened even if you can’t articulate why, and that’s all it takes for it to be Andrés turn, now, and he lands on you.

 

(What are you even mad about in the first place? It’s not Beck, you know, you _know_ \- whatever. _Why_ doesn’t matter, so you’re not mad- if it’s not that you’re not with him, then it’s _why_ , and that has _nothing to do with him_ ; but you’re too caught up in getting all your wires crossed like you’ve ever felt anything for real, so it’s all this manufactured _jealousy_ you feign while you bite your lip till it bleeds. _Who cares!_ )

 

André’s turn, and he lands on you, and you can see him hesitate before murmuring something out about oh, no, he’s passing, it’s your turn, now. Just because you feel like it and know you can, you pick at him a bit, mess with him until he’s scared just enough, then drop it almost immediately because it’s André, and he wouldn’t know how to appease you either way, and no matter how much you mess with him and watch his eyes react, that won’t make it any better, and with friends like you, what’s the fucking difference?

 

And you stop, too, because it’s André, and he did this pity grab for _you_ , and even if it makes you fucking angry, it’d be so much worse if no one did _anything_ , and it’s André, who did this to try and _help_ you, even though he _knows_ you, so you shut up and stop trying to get him to flinch because you can never stop fucking up any good thing you don’t deserve.

 

You give a good hard spin, then stand up, throw your head back, give a sigh, then look back down, like it’s all so stupid; and you know it is, too. The people you know are _all_ looking at you like you can’t tell, like they’re not so afraid of what you might do after yet another breakup to reel over, and you figure they think you’re a crazy bitch. (You always think the fucking worst of people.)

 

Slower, slower… and… Tori. Fuck. You wring your hands together and step forward, smirk lying flat on your face, arms crossed. She struggles up with a heavy sway, and her whole body is tense and tied together, teeth clenched. She looks like she’s going to be sick.

 

Pale and smaller than you are when she gets close enough to tell, she’s wide-eyed and drunk, chewing on her bottom lip, and you know she must be thinking it’s all over for her. And you think you really hate her, you really do- like it’s not all just for show, it’s just so much _different_. (And, fuck it- you’re taking it so fucking _seriously_. It doesn’t go that deep, you just _hate_ her, even when you’re accidentally alone and not-so-different getting along, you know you hate her, ‘cause you can feel it with the burning in your throat, right there in your chest, between your lungs, that wild _anger_ of yours.)

 

She thinks that you’re going to hurt her. ( _Everyone_ thinks you’re going to hurt her.)

 

You’re sort of too faded to care, to even register the repercussions and why this could be so bad that you’re going to kiss her, or _whatever_ , going to have to weigh that against how it feels to kiss _him_ , and you don’t wanna think about it, so you swallow hard enough to feel that burning in the back of your throat again and smile like you’re gonna do exactly what everyone thinks you’re going to do, and they- _she_ thinks you’re going to _hurt_ her.

 

You’d think, though, that she’d know by now, that’s not your style. Not really. Not even when you have the chance to, not even when it’s easy. You inhale- it’s Tori, now, and you try and tell yourself it’s fine, there’s nothing beyond right now and her standing there looking like she thinks this is her last night on Earth, that’s all, and that’s enough for you to grab her shirt collar and feel her tense in your hands, so fragile, and you can act like you’re showing off, make a real show of it with your hands in her hair, on her face, her hips, and then you can feel her start to relax but you keep it going anyways like it’s for anyone but you.

 

(Still, there’s something chanting along to the tune of the shitty lo-fi music, quiet and deep: _you should have walked home when you had the chance_ in your head on repeat.)

 

You can practically feel her knees buckle beside you, and so after another second, you pull away, and you don’t say a word. Neither does she, eyes firmly to the floor, and your teeth dig into your bottom lip. Fucking dumbass.

Like there was anything worse you could’ve done, Tori reeling and dazed, eyes as unfocused as the furniture kids with their phones out in the next room over, so you back off and take another drink as that little stunt you just pulled hangs in the room above everyone, and that’s all it takes for you to kill that little middle school game, apparently, ‘cause not five passing cars later it’s over for _everyone_ without a word, everyone staring at the ceiling and not even moving, like this party could _get_ any lamer.

 

(And, for the record, not once does Robbie get any action from this stupid fucking game, which you figure has _got_ to be some kind of cosmic retribution for him calling shotgun on behalf of his goddamn puppet.)

 

Instead of walking home you walk up and out, through the stairs like you know where they lead, (you don’t, but it wouldn’t matter, anyways) up and through the empty upstairs hallway which is so much darker and different than the too-bright wasteland below, further until you open the door and the cold air hits your lungs and the hum of the city swallows you whole, leaning against the wall and looking over on everything until you don’t feel like the only small thing left, even as everything in you is screaming _it’s just not that serious_.

 

After all, you’re drunk, so what does it matter? If you kissed her, if you ditched them all to go brood on the roof or what-the-fuck- _ever_ , like you were just so sick of it down there; like you’re any _better_.

 

But that’s all in between the lasting sensation of Tori’s body pressed against yours on repeat, how she kissed you back, how she drew towards you when you finally pulled away, how it took you just that long to pull away in the first place; how _you_ broke up with _Beck_ , and not the other way around. And the god-awful _why_ of it all.

 

And nobody even wondered why. _Good_. None of their fucking business in the first place, lots of things better left unsaid. Your head aches and you know it’ll be worse in the morning, too-bright again which you dread like you’re dreading the trudge through the first floor and out the door, back to Robbie’s darker car, back to Tori between you and Beck, like that isn’t symbolism for dummies.

 

And where’s your green light across the lake or whatever, that freshman year bullshit? What’s your grand fucking gesture? (Well, you already know, right. You fucking know. Like it didn’t just go down two stories below you. _Grand gesture_. Whatever.)

 

When the door creaks open, you bet you already know. Cold lingering in your bones, permeating your jacket all the way through, you cross your arms, don’t look away or up or anything: maybe she’ll go away.

 

As if you’re just that lucky.

 

And it’s only a few more steps before she speaks: “what was that about?” Her voice cracks and she’s beside you, looks like she’s trying to bury herself in her hoodie, and you know she’s kind of drunk, kind of a lightweight, as drunk as you, maybe. And you just raise your eyebrows, blank expression, like maybe you’re both drunk enough to get away with it.

 

And though you see her blink, completely unnerved by your lack of a response, she still pushes on: “you _kissed_ me,” she says, most obvious thing in the world, and you want to- what? Laugh?

 

‘Cause really, isn’t that _so_ Tori? Drunk and confused and kind of terrified, you get the impression, but still indignant, always defending herself and even when it’s a losing battle, she’s got that much going for her, and it’s what she’s learned since you first met her back then, when things were simpler and you hated her as much as you do now because, what? _Beck_. Of course, it drew back to him. Or, he draws back to her.

 

And back then, she was sorry, but now, she was demanding, and you hated her for it. Maybe loved her for it. And you just smile, sorta, straighten up, tighten your arms over your chest, full deal- that much power, you have left, and it’s enough to convince the forefront of your inebriated brain that Tori Vega has nothing on you.

 

“What, you want me to hit you?” You say it like a challenge, like maybe you can really psych her out, and you smile in full, daring her to say anything.

 

“No, I mean- why _didn’t_ you?” She’s sputtering, grasping at _anything_ , and you know this is the kinda thing she should’ve let die, and you wonder if _she_ knows that, or if she’s too drunk to care. Or maybe you’re just speaking different languages, and she wouldn’t know anyways; maybe she’s just as outraged, wants answers. That’s even worse.

 

You pause for long enough to make an effect, drop your arms from your chest, and size her up, standing there, drunk but unwavering, something you regret. Something that coils inside your chest and causes you all this grief, leaves you more confused than you ever wanted to be.

 

And you hate her for it, want to crush her, a little, or see if she cares enough about you that you can. You just keep _talking_ until there’s nothing good left, right? So you speak slow and clear, like that’ll change it, and you _sound_ mean, as mean as you always do, like she’s just so much slower than you, but she’s _not_. Not really.

 

“Beck kissed a girl, so I did, too.” Like it’s the simplest thing in the world, but you’re taking it so fucking seriously, sizing up her body language, trying to tell if she even _cares_ , if it’s a relief, or what? Did she want more? So you think maybe it’s just cause you’re that fucking drunk, drunk enough that you’ll wake up and be back in the drone of comfort and familiarity again, like you’ll wake up and Beck will be your boyfriend again, and you’ll feel as equally _nothing_ over him as you always did, with all of your manufactured rage.

 

“What?” You say after a moment, “did you think it _meant_ something?” What does it matter? Who are you even speaking to? And you laugh in earnest, full and loud, echoing off of the city sound. And you do the dread-walk back downstairs into the flickering too-bright and stifling white noise like it’s the inevitable, and you take the damn ride home, every bit as terrible as you knew it would be.

 

After it all, Beck starts dating that girl from the party, and it’s your fault, is prerogative, _who cares!_ Because her face at your lunch table every once in a while (despite the fact that she goes to a different fucking school) is enough to claw away at your head with all that you gave away, and all that is so absolutely _no longer yours_.

 

Even so, you’re relieved to know you really did love him, and are even more jarred to realize that it had died without you realizing it, that something else, wild and foreign, had grown in the empty space where it had been left, but still: what once was yours is no longer, and that’s enough to make you angry. And he is moving on, and you’ve got to remind yourself every twenty seconds what the fuck you _left_ him for, in the first place, which persistently seems to be _nothing_.

 

And so you show up at Vega’s house without knowing where you were headed when you first got in your car, and she answers. And you think, looking at her in the low light: _this_ is why, and you’re getting fucking _nowhere_ , so your hands are all over her immediately, like that’s all you know how to do, as far as you can get with her, regardless, and for a second, it feels right or _something_ like that, and maybe a little better than not getting anywhere at all, like you’d know what to say, regardless.

 

And once the rampant spinning in your chest finally calms to a mindless drone, you take off, satisfied, and drive around for another hour before you climb back in the window of your bedroom and turn the light off.

 

But it’s still like that, trying to get your money’s worth and feeling entirely unfulfilled every time you see him with his new girlfriend, every bit as pissed about it, and like a trip to the janitors closet with your hands all over Tori is the perfect quick-fix to the humming in your head of _where’s that for you_ when you look at Beck and his new girlfriend, happy.

 

And you’re late to fifth period and everything, but the detention is worth it, so whatever.

 

It takes all of detention alone in the silence with the clock ticking away in the background to realize, though, that, like… who cares? You’re not one, to like, _get over shit_ , but whatever: your third eye is open, you’re enlightened, _who cares about Beck anymore_? Like, you’ve got bigger things to worry about: Tori’s eyes, and how you can only _ever_ get physical with her, how you can’t fucking _talk_ to her without driving her away, how you should either make a real move or leave her alone, how you _won’t_. (How you left your boyfriend for her; and it’s not like you _care_ so much, but maybe you do. Maybe you do.)

 

And, against your better judgement, you show up _again_ , it’s always you _starting_ things, you at her house late into the night, and this time, it isn’t so easy, because she speaks, and that’s what you know you’re not so good at.

 

“Why are you doing this? Beck doesn’t even _know_ , you know that, right?” She demands and answer and you’re kind of taken aback, try not to let that bleed into your features. You swallow, and then speak.

 

“I’m not stupid. What, you don’t like it?” You keep it short, keep it curt, evade the question entirely.

 

She stutters out something incomprehensible, drops her whole stance, and looks kind of confused, like she hadn’t really known what she wanted to say past that. But, there in the dark, she’s fucking gorgeous, and you can think of a thousand things more fun you can be doing than going through the motions of talking and feelings, so you mumble that she talks too much and close the gap between you like you know what you’re doing and where your endpoint is.

 

And she eventually stops talking, and it’s a lot of _fun_ , sort of, if a little _confusing_. But you’d rather not think of it, so fuck that. And, eventually, in the way that high school goes, André says his friends are having a party, and he actually _calls_ it a party, in his own words, so you figure that, whatever, you’ve got some fucking time to waste.

 

It’s _ironic_ or something that what it takes for Robbie to finally put his puppet in the trunk is just Beck’s girlfriend coming along, but you figure it doesn’t really matter anymore, still pressed up against Tori in the tiny seats, Beck a row ahead of you.

 

The drive feels long but you don’t keep track, and while you shuffle into the moving mass of the house party, some greasy kid hands you something to drink. You watch Tori and pretend like you aren’t. She scowls after every sip but looks like she’s trying to chug it, anyways, and you just look away and sip at your own, and after all this time, it still has that fucking taste.

 

It’s crowded and loud and dizzying, and you could get lost if you ducked, for like, a second. Like tidal waves or something, every movement is cause and effect. Mosh-pit, but less violent: everyone’s too drunk to try. And it kind of _sucks_ , shitty music droning everything out and pulsing through the floor, and you’re definitely, like, too sober, and it’s _just_ like a mosh pit, actually: if you stop moving, it’s over, so you drink a little more, enough to sting your lungs, enough to cloud your judgement, hoping it’s enough to stop wishing you were _anywhere else_ , and you kiss Tori, there in front of everyone, grabbing her by the collar and she leans in to you, and it’s like, you’re drunk, so who cares?

 

Like for that long, you’re not _totally alone_ , everyone’s drunk and making out and miserable and _whatever_ together, all at once, and everyone’s gotta feel exactly how you do, all your hearts beating along to the same shitty dubstep music as you kiss her on the couch like girls do at parties all the time, even when they’re not friends.

 

The ride home, sobering up: that’s _so_ much worse, Tori’s head on your chest, knocked-out in a dead sleep, _such_ a lightweight, and every time you pass under a streetlight and get a glimpse of her face, unburdened and soft, all of the anger and confusion is just _gone_ , and that’s how you know you’re really that far gone, try and blame it on being drunk but _fuck_ , you think you kind of _love_ her.

 

By the time it’s morning and you’re sober and it’s bright, you tell yourself it was only because you’re drunk, but you’re too far past that to put any real stock in it, so you settle on all of this confusion and anger and turmoil inside of you and let it roll in your chest, loud and deep.

 

But it goes on anyways, strictly physical, always strictly physical, anything else is too confusing, too hard, too much work, and her against the wall in the janitor’s closet is enough to be worth every last tardy for your goddamn fifth hour, anyways, and nothing, absolutely _nothing_ is wrong.

 

Until it’s Friday, and one am, and something is _wrong_ , her standing there in the dark, your never-ending ritual, but her arms are crossed and she’s _so_ far away, and of _course_ she’s going to bring the talking into it again, so you just raise your eyebrows and wait for her to pass go.

 

“We can’t do this anymore,” she states, absolutely sure of herself.

 

“Is it because you’re scared we’re gonna get caught? Because we don’t have to do it at school anymore if you don’t-” you start, but she cuts you off. Like school is the only issue, but it’s _not_ , because it’s Tori, who is always all about feelings and emotions and _whatever_ , the fucking Nancy Drew of relationships, always getting to the bottom of shit, and you know she’s fixed you more than once.

 

“No, it’s not that. Well, I mean, a little bit, but- it’s not that,” she says, trying to get her story straight, and you bite your lip.

 

“So? What’s the problem?” You say, hoping you can minimize whatever inevitable damage Tori getting to the point will have.

 

“I- I don’t want to _do_ this anymore,” she says, and she sounds confused as she does, and she’s looking at you, but not your eyes, and you kind of flounder, like, panic a little.

 

“What? Don’t you like it?” You ask, and that’s all you’ve got, all you were gunning on, physical and pleasure and _right_ , but she just sort of blinks, and you wonder if this is _it_.

 

“No, it’s good, it’s just- I don’t wanna do it anymore, the secret, physical-only, something-with-benefits thing,” she says, finally finding her footing, finally _sure_ of everything you can’t provide for her. “I don’t like it, that kind of relationship.”

 

 _Relationship_. You swallow, nod a little, think it over. Okay. _Fuck_. This, this is _it_. ‘Cause that’s all you can ever fucking do, right? Fuck up every good thing you don’t deserve, and it was stupid to think you could keep doing this with _Tori_ , who is eternally too good for your bullshit games and _not fucking talking_ because words never get you anywhere good, it’s so much better if she’s kissing you and you _can’t_ speak, or maybe you’re just better with _her_.

 

So you tell her fine, and you leave for the last time, swiping away underneath your eyes on the way home, ‘cause you walked in the dark the whole way here.

 

You don’t look at her at lunch, but she talks too much and you don’t talk at all, maybe better that way. Everything she says is just this white noise, this dull hum in the back of your head, and you just _shouldn’t fucking care_. Cut out all the talking and all the sentimental bullshit and you’re free for the first time, like _ever_ , and you just shouldn’t be so fucking _hung up_ on it, you know, you know.

 

But by the time it starts to rain, you feel so fucking _stupid_. Newsflash, asshole! You’ve loved her the whole goddamn time! So why can’t you just do all that, just be _domestic_ or what-the-fuck ever? ‘Cause God knows it’s _been_ all this time, and you’re taking it too fucking _seriously_ , you know. And you have _no_ idea what to do, what to _say_ , just know that you love her, don’t want to be _without_ her, so you find yourself at her house on accident, standing there in the rain thinking that maybe you’ll just run your stupid mouth for a change and see if you can speak the same goddamn language as her.

 

She lets you in and sounds entirely unsure about it, and you’re definitely getting to panicking, running hands through wet hair and biting your lip, opening and closing your mouth because there’s no way you can figure out how to articulate what you’re trying to say.

 

“Be my girlfriend, then,” you spit out dumbly, sounding petulant and confused, and you kind of flinch, but you’re on this spiral and there’s nothing that might stop it, because you know what you mean but not how to say it, and she just… looks at you.

 

“Excuse me?” She asks, after glancing at you a minute, and you feel _so_ fucking stupid, _God!_

_“Be my girlfriend,”_ you try again, a little bit louder, still sounding a little unsure, but voice steady.

 

She really pauses, now, looks you up and down, and says, “You… you want to  _date me_ just because you’re too lazy to go out and find someone else to fuck around with?”

 

And you’re, like, sort of pissed, mostly embarrassed, and after all this, the whole walk in the fucking rain, and you love her and everything, and you try and run your mouth and tell her, and of _course_ , this. Of course, she thinks so little of you. _“No_ , it’s not _like_ that,” you start, but then it all really reaches your ears, and you _know_ you should just stop fucking _talking,_ because it’s not _worth_ it, what was the point? “That’s not what it’s  _about_ , I- that’s not why. Okay? God. This is stupid. Forget it, I should just leave.”

 

And you’re really about to, turned around and everything, but she gets you with the _talking_.

 

“Wait,” she says, sounding kind of apologetic, “it’s not. Don’t. Don’t leave.” She pauses, looks up, kind of incredulous. “That’s… really not what it’s about?”

 

“ _No_. That’s never what it was about- well, at first, but- that’s not what it’s about,” you try, and you sound like her, backing up and confused, so you just swallow hard and face her.

 

And then, with absolute certainty, she says “okay,” like it’s the most simple thing in the world.

 

“Okay?” You repeat, raising an unsure eyebrow.

 

She nods, and takes a step towards you.

**Author's Note:**

> hope u enjoyed but honestly leave my thirsy ass a review. a critique if u will. an editorial, even. school is starting and all that will save me from the pain is y'all leavin me some long ass reviews tell me ur fav parts if u had any etc also u can rq fics or talk 2 me if u want at my tumblr kryptomb.tumblr.com/ask


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